Epilogue #2
“I am goin’ to be a father,” he announced, voice carrying clean across the sudden hush that had fallen over the room. “Alba’s carryin’ me child.”
The Hall erupted.
Fergus was on his feet with a roar, almost as fast as Sebastian had been, his words obliterated by the surrounding clamor, already reaching for his cup to raise it high.
Margaret made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, both hands pressed to her mouth. Hamish pounded the table hard enough to rattle every cup on it, roaring his approval loudly enough to be heard clearly through to the kitchens.
Isobel rose gracefully to embrace Alba the moment Sebastian released her hand, murmuring something too quiet for him to catch, while Alasdair reached to clasp Sebastian’s shoulder with a grip that said more than any words could have.
“A bairn!” Fergus exclaimed, still on his feet, cup raised high enough that half the Hall could see it. “To Sebastian and Alba MacGregor, and the newest wee terror this family’s about to inherit!”
“To the MacGregors!” someone shouted from further down the table, and the Hall took up the toast at once, cups raised, voices overlapping in a warm, chaotic roar of approval that seemed to shake the very stones of the Keep.
Sebastian pulled Alba back against his side, one arm wrapped firm around her waist, and pressed a kiss to her temple without restraint or shyness, right there in front of every soul in the Hall.
“Ye couldnae have celebrated privately first?” she murmured, though she was laughing despite the accusation, leaning into him rather than pulling away.
“And miss the chance to shout it at the whole Hall? Nae a chance.”
It was Brian, predictably, who cut through the celebration first, wriggling free of Philomena’s grip and darting up the table toward them.
“Does this mean I am gettin’ a cousin?”
“Aye,” Sebastian said, crouching slightly to meet him properly.
“Can I name it?”
The question came out so fast and so entirely serious that Sebastian nearly laughed outright. “Ye want to name the bairn?”
“Aye. I am good at names. I named the new hound, remember?”
“Ye named the hound Stew.”
“He looks like a Stew.”
“He’s a wolfhound, Brian. He looks nothin’ like a stew.”
“He does if ye squint.” Brian crossed his arms, entirely undeterred. “Fine. What about for the bairn, if it’s a boy, we could call him Thunder.”
“Thunder?”
“Aye. Or Bear. Bear’s a good, strong name.”
“Ye want to name me son Bear?”
“Or Rock. Rock MacGregor has a nice sound to it.”
Alba had gone still beside him, one hand pressed over her mouth, shoulders already shaking with barely contained laughter. “Rock MacGregor,” she repeated, voice unsteady. “Council meetings would never be the same.”
“They’d fear him instantly,” Brian said, entirely earnest. “Nay one argues with a man named Rock.”
They all laughed.
“What about Sword?” Brian pressed on, undeterred by the laughter still rolling down the table. “Sword MacGregor. That would strike fear into any enemy the moment they heard it!”
“We are nae naming a bairn after a weapon, lad.”
“Why nae? Ye named yer own sword somethin’, I ken it. I heard ye call it Vengeance once.”
“That is entirely different.”
“How is it different?”
“Because a sword doesnae have to grow up and introduce itself at council meetings.”
“And if it’s a lass?” Alba asked, mostly to see where this would go.
Brian considered this with real gravity, chewing his lip. “Snow. Or Blade. Blade’s a good name for a lass too, I think. Very fierce.”
“We are nae namin’ yer cousin Blade, lad.”
“Why nae? Everyone would ken instantly she’s nae to be trifled with.”
“That’s what her mother’s reputation is for.”
“Aye, fair point.” Brian nodded, entirely satisfied with this logic, before brightening with a fresh idea. “What about Hamish? For a boy. After Hamish.”
Down the table, Hamish’s booming laugh cut through the surrounding noise. “I will nae object to that one, lad. Strong name. Good sound to it.”
“Ye only like it because it’s yer own name,” Fergus called back.
“Aye, and it’s an excellent name for exactly that reason.”
Brian, apparently emboldened by this small victory, turned back to Sebastian with renewed enthusiasm. “Or Fergus. For a lass.”
A beat of silence followed this suggestion before the whole table dissolved into fresh laughter, Fergus loudest among them, nearly choking on his own ale.
“A lass named Fergus!” Margaret managed between gasps of laughter. “God help us all.”
“It’s a fine name,” Fergus protested, though he was laughing too hard to sound remotely convincing.
“It’s a terrible name for a wee lass, and ye ken it,” Margaret said, wiping at her eyes.
Down the table, even Alasdair had abandoned his usual quiet composure long enough to laugh openly at the exchange, shaking his head at Isobel, who looked equally delighted despite her efforts to appear otherwise.
Margaret, still catching her breath from laughing, pressed a hand to her own rounded belly and grinned across at Alba. “At this rate, the two bairns will grow up arguin’ over whose name Brian ruined worse.”
“Mine’s already decided. Brian will have Lily convinced her middle name is Stew by the time she’s old enough to argue back.”
“I would never!” Brian said, with the wounded dignity of a boy who absolutely would.
“We’ll consider all of it,” Sebastian told Brian solemnly, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Thunder, Bear, Rock, Blade, Hamish, and Fergus. A fine list.”
“Ye’re humorin’ me.”
“Aye. Entirely.”
“I kent it.” Brian did not seem the least bit troubled by this admission, already turning to run back toward Philomena with the news that he’d very likely named his own cousin, several times over, in the span of a single conversation.
Alba leaned into Sebastian’s side as the Hall settled slowly back into its usual noise around them, warmth and laughter carrying on in every corner, cups still raised here and there in scattered, delighted toasts.
“Thunder MacGregor,” she murmured, shaking her head slowly.
“Could be worse.”
Alba laughed, bright and unguarded, and Sebastian pulled her closer, one hand resting flat against her stomach beneath the table, still hardly able to believe the whole of what this single evening had handed him, unasked and entirely welcome.
A wife who had chosen him twice over, a Hall full of people who had become something very close to family, and now, somewhere beneath his palm, the quiet promise of one more life yet to come.
The End?